“The wind drapes your hair across The Seven Hills. Memories scatter the ashes of history. Like a woman, like a mare, let me embrace your slender waist. İstanbul, my love, let me kiss your graceful neck…”
This was the chorus of the song that was singing in my ears while my plane was landing. It was years ago, I was visiting İstanbul, 2 months after I left for my master’s degree abroad. With the plane slowly descending, I was looking at the city that I was in love with tears in my eyes, with the İstanbul song by Levent Yüksel in my ears.
I was never going to leave İstanbul for good. I loved it with all my heart.
I don’t remember when I first realized I was in love. Was it the day I first walked down Istiklal Avenue, or was it when I crossed the Bosphorus by ferry alone? Maybe it was when I saw the gate of Haydarpasa Train Station opening to the sea as the ferry was approaching Kadıköy. Or maybe I fell in love while looking at the Bosphorus from the Revan Mansion in Topkapı Palace. The blue waters, the green hills, the buildings whispering from a thousand years ago, the ever-blazing city lights, the boundless energy she possesses…
It wasn’t like any other city or place. It was so unapologetically unique in every single way. With its narrow old streets, steep cobblestone slopes, its unannounced views behind random corners that that strike the mind like a bullet, its dark corners, abandoned structures that have outlived empires, its chaos and order, its luxury and poverty, with its one-of-a-kind blend of the old and the new…
Of course behind this enchanting uniqueness lay a history just as extraordinary. It all began with a king who, guided by a prophecy, set his course toward the Bosphorus.
In the 6th century BCE, Byzas, a young leader from Megara, consults the Oracle of Delphi about founding a new city. The oracle cryptically advises him: “Find your city opposite the land of the blind.” After a long journey, Byzas arrives at the Bosporus and saw the city of Chalcedon, the site of present-day Kadıköy. As he wonders why the beautiful shore across was left uninhabited, the oracle’s words echo in his mind: “The land of the blind…” In that moment, he understands; those who had settled across from such a beautiful place must have been truly blind. And he founds his city and names it Byzantium, in the area we now call the Historic Peninsula. Over the centuries, the name changes, but the city’s enchantment never wanes. Byzantium, the city of Goddess Hecate, first turns into Constantinople in 330 AD, becoming the center of Christianity. Then, in 1453, following the Ottoman conquest, it transforms into Istanbul, the heart of the Islamic world, until the abolition of the caliphate in the 20th century.
And with each name comes another new and singular layer to the soul of the city.
Regardless of its religion, its language, or the origin of its rulers, his extraordinary city always claims a spot in history’s most privileged corner. From the day it is founded, it embraces countless souls cast adrift by life’s many currents—on one hand allowing them to be themselves, on the other wearing them down and testing them with its energy. So much so that some almost go to war with it, shouting at the waters of the Bosphorus, “I will conquer you, Istanbul.”
And yet, in every era, whoever inhales even a single breath of its air becomes utterly captivated by this city. It turns into an irresistible love, laying waste to countless hearts.
For me, it was no different. Whatever that magic was, it had touched me and the damage had been done. I felt like I belonged to Istanbul with my whole body and soul. No matter where I went in the world, I would always leave knowing that I would return to it. As I wandered its streets, my eyes would fill with tears for no reason, and when I looked at the Bosphorus’s waters, I felt alive with every cell I have in my body.
I was captivated by Istanbul – by İstiklal Street, by the Taksim Square and Gümüşsuyu, by its neighbourhoods Arnavutköy, Bebek, the lively Moda shore, the Princes’ Islands, the Golden Horn, the Bosporus…
I was drinking beer on the benches on my campus, gazing at the Küçüksu Pavilion, I was watching the sunrise from the Cihangir steps and having breakfast in Garipçe. On my way to eat fish in Anadolu Kavağı, I’d pause at Yoros Castle to admire the Bosphorus, and in Poyrazköy I’d dip my feet in the water while chatting with friends. I would never miss tasting the special yoghurt of Kanlıca during my occasional Bosphorus ferry tours, or feasting on a wet burger and stuffed mussels after a long night in Taksim. When I saw the abandoned buildings while strolling down Istiklal Street, I envied European cities that preserved their historical architecture, thinking this city deserved more than this careless treatment. While singing on the ground with my friends in Gezi Park, I could feel the hope overflowing from our hearts shining in our eyes, convinced that bright, sunny days were within reach. On a Friday evening, straight from work, I would notice my legs running to a bar in Beşiktaş to meet my best friend for the week’s critique, not realizing how lucky I truly was during those days.
Then the city gradually darkened. Happy faces were crushed under the darkness that descended. Hope slowly drained from within us. The city I’d fallen in love with seemed to transform into something else. It was as if everything was growing ugly, every street was pressing in on me. My heaven had turned into a prison in the hands of a group of oppressors. I gave up on loving Istanbul. Our love was over. We could no longer be the same. And it was up to me to go.
I shoved the fragments of my broken heart into a bag and left for the other side of the world. Yet, no matter how far I traveled, these broken pieces cut and bled me with my every move – for years. In every city I chased the scent of its sea, in every street I yearned for the cobblestones, in every restaurant I searched for its laughter. And on all the nights I drank rakı, I wept for a love long gone.
“My love was spring, full of hope. Then you left and my heart darkened. Oh, gone are those days, forgotten are the promises, all that is left is a broken heart. Why did you leave me, leave me behind? I was left hopeless and my heart darkened.”
This song, with lyrics that rubbed salt into the wound, one day became my greatest hope. While it was sung by a Pink Martini at Harbiye Theater, the voice of my city’s hope accompanied it on a fine summer evening. It felt as if my Istanbul was slowly returning. The buildings I once felt were abandoned, were being renovated, turned into art centers by someone. Libraries were filling the ferry docks. Public spaces were being created for us to be able to have a view of the Bosphorus from the shore once again. The city was lighting up. Faces were smiling, hope was once again rising again in the parks.
I was regaining my enthusiasm to take my Istanbul flights. I was feeling that slowly, I was making up my mind…. I will return to you İstanbul. There is no place in the world like you, I will return. Forgive me, I miss you so much.
I miss your air, your madness, the color of your waters, I miss the way you look like you are about to whisper “if only you knew what stories I hold”. I take back my words. I will never stop loving you.
Yes, once again, someone is tripping up our happiness, again they are trying to separate us from each other, to destroy our hopes and end our love. But this time, darkness will not win, they will not be able to separate us, Istanbul. Spring will come, I will again sit and gaze at the Bosphorus freely and peacefully from my campus. We will raise our glasses in your honor with my friends until the dawn in the narrow streets of Asmalımescit. We will sing songs until our voices are hoarse at concerts on summer evenings. We will jump into the crystal clear waters of the Bosphorus and swim all the way from Europe to Asia. We will have breakfast under the lilacs in the patios. We will say, “What a day we have been through, Istanbul, thank goodness it is over now, we’ve broken free…”
